


A Safe Place

by Cococonut



Series: Shadow Play [1]
Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28234341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cococonut/pseuds/Cococonut
Summary: “Kimiko, you’re not locked up anymore. Nothing is stopping you from doing... anything. You’re free.”
Relationships: The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro & The Frenchman, The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro/The Frenchman
Series: Shadow Play [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074914
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	A Safe Place

When he asked me if I wanted to get a place with him, I almost said no. It wasn’t a good idea. For so many reasons. But then I considered the alternative—coming home to a dark, empty apartment, in a strange city, in a strange country, nothing but my own terrible thoughts to keep me company. It was too much. And so I said okay. 

It’s still quiet, the city just beginning to stir. He fell asleep reading on the couch last night. He looks so soft these days. Almost boyish. His hair has grown out these past few months and there’s a bit of a curl. I carefully pull the book from his grasp. His eyes fly open and he grabs my wrist, but relaxes and smiles when he sees me.

“It's still early. Go back to sleep,” I sign.

He nods and lets his eyes fall closed again. There’s no work today. No one to spy on, nothing to steal, no one to kill. I’ve got a whole day ahead of me with nothing I have to do, an untold luxury only a short time ago. 

I take a long, hot shower. Another pleasure I had not had for such a long time. Everything I own is clean now. I’m clean. Sometimes I shower two, three times a day, just because I can. And when I get out, I slather myself in this thick body cream that smells like coconuts. I dry and comb my hair, and put on freshly laundered clothes. 

On my days off, I like to explore this new city, but it’s a pleasure to just stay home too. I’m enjoying mundanity: washing my clothes in a washing machine, listening to Serge complain about the state of bread in this country, bringing something home and not having to worry that it will be taken from me, feeling safe in my bed. Just the fact that I have a place that I consider home at all is new. It’s hard for me to explain these feelings. I don’t think anyone would understand, unless they’d lived the life I’d lived. 

I put the kettle on the stove and wait for the water to boil. I fill the new teapot I picked up in Chinatown with green tea, and espresso in the French press for him. I cut off a few slices of the bread that he baked yesterday and put them in the oven to toast. When I turn around, he’s awake, watching me from the couch. 

“Bonjour.” 

I smile at him. He’s got a crease on his face from the pillow. He slept hard last night. A good thing. I didn’t even hear him wake up once. I pile the warm toast on to a plate, and put the butter and jam on the table—for the tartine, he calls it. 

He shuffles over to the kitchen and pours the tea for me and a mug of coffee for himself. And when he hands me the cup, his hand lingers on my own a touch too long, or maybe I’m imagining it. 

He takes a moment to breathe in the aroma, closing his eyes, before taking that first sip. I’ve seen him do this before, many times, and I never get tired of seeing it. 

Sometimes I worry that it’s all going to go bad again. But mornings like this, it’s a little easier to ignore that voice in my head for a little while longer. Maybe if there are enough mornings like this, I won’t hear it anymore. 

——

Once I hear the water running and I’m sure I’m alone, I clear my throat. 

At first, nothing. 

It’s tantalizingly close, I close my eyes, I can almost reach it. The air catches in my throat and I try to slow down, empty my head of everything. The words forming, just on the tip of my tongue. There’s nothing wrong with my body. There’s nothing wrong with me. I can do this. 

There’s a word for it. Psychosomatic. We looked it up online. He gently suggested that if I wanted, I could see someone. But I swiftly batted down that idea. I can’t imagine talking to a stranger. They wouldn’t believe me, for one. Or maybe they’d call the cops or immigration. 

“Hhh...”

I make the shape of the words with my mouth, and still...nothing comes out. How much longer? How long do I have to stay silent? It’s my stupid fucking head. I want to rip it out, whatever is keeping me from speaking. Frustrated, I try to scream and still, nothing comes out. 

I slam my fists into the wall and beat at it until my knuckles are raw and bloody. 

“Fuuuuuuck! Fuuuuuck!!! Motherfucker!!!!”

I hadn’t heard the water stop. 

“Say it again,” he says, breathless. 

I pause my temper tantrum and look at my handiwork. I’ve managed to make a visible dent in the cinder block walls. The skin on my knuckles is ragged and bloody. Then I realize what he’s just asked me to do. I take a deep breath.

“...fuck?”

“Again!”

Oh my god. 

“Fuck!”

“Fuuuck me! You can speak?”

Another deep breath. 

“...Yes?”

The words sound strange to me. My voice sounds strange, stilted. I haven’t heard myself in...how long has it been? Fifteen years? 

And then his arms are around me and he’s laughing, lifting me into the air, his skin still wet from the shower. He’s got the biggest grin and I think tears in his eyes. He sets me down but doesn’t let go. We just smile at each other. 

“I’m so...C’est incroyable! How long have you been able to speak?”

“...I couldn’t until...just now. I was so...pissed off...it just came out.”

“Perhaps I should have made you angry earlier, non?” He laughs. 

I give him a playful shove and he grabs my wrist. 

“Oh no no no no no, this is not good,” he says clucking over my bloody knuckles. The wounds have already started healing over and the concern is touching but really unnecessary. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Okay, fine. But...maybe you should get dressed first.”

He laughs, still not letting go of my hand, and me still letting him hold it. With his other hand he clutches the towel at his waist. 

“You don’t like my outfit?”

I do. Very much. Too much. I just laugh in response.

This makes him smile even wider. “Incroyable.”

—-

He pauses, looking between the two of us. Scratching the back of his head the way he does when he’s thinking, or deeply distressed, or stalling for time. In this case, it’s probably a mix of all three. He opens his mouth to speak, takes a breath, and then thinks better of it. 

“Cherie...Kimiko...you will be okay?” 

I roll my eyes. 

“Don’t worry, Pumpkin. I’m sure we’ll find something to talk about.”

She looks at me and winks. 

He swallows. “Okay...I’ll be right back. I just need to get Butcher out of the drunk tank.”

“Leave him. Let him sleep it off,” I sign.

Serge looks at me, and then back down at his phone. “I know, I know, I should…” He shakes his head. “Fuck! I’ll be back in a minute...just...be nice.” 

I flip him the bird. 

“I’m always nice.” She drawls, smiling wolfishly.

He looks like he’s about to be sick, eyes darting between her and me, but he swears under his breath and finally pushes out the door. 

This is not a situation I’ve been in before. Growing up in a jungle camp never prepared me to deal with the…ex-girlfriend? Current girlfriend? Of the guy who is...I don’t know what he is. Cherie’s around all the time. Usually to see Serge, but sometimes she has jobs for me. I know he doesn’t like it, but it’s really none of his business. 

“Here.” She slides me a matchbook. “It pays ten grand. This one’s a fucking rapist. They want it done before the end of the month.”

I nod and put it in my pocket. 

She lights a cigarette. Takes a deep drag and exhales expertly out the side of her mouth. 

“Want one?” 

“No, thanks.”

She visibly startles, those eerie light blue eyes wide. 

“Holy fuck you can talk?” 

I nod. 

“Since when?”

“A week?”

“Shit… And does Serge know? Why the sign language earlier?”

I shrug. “Habit. He knows.”

“Well, that makes things easier.” She makes a vague gesture in the air with her cigarette. I don’t know what she’s referring to—me and her, right now. Or me and Serge.

“So, have you two fucked yet?”

That question is tossed off as casually as if she’s asking about the weather. I should have just kept my mouth shut a little longer. My muteness was not voluntary, and there were times where I desperately wanted my voice back. But this...I wouldn’t mind not talking right about now.

I stand up and walk to the kitchen. I pull out two beer bottles from the fridge and hand one to her and then sit down on the couch.

“No,” I say.

The surprise is evident in her face. 

“Bullshit.”

I shrug and take a sip. Everyone thinks we’re sleeping together. But we haven’t even kissed. I don’t count that moment of complete idiocy after Kenji was murdered. 

“Why not?” She asks.

Her tone baffles me. “You sound like you want me to sleep with him?” 

“I mean, you two have this cozy love nest.” 

She gestures around the spartan place we’re calling home. There are tools and gun parts scattered all over the table. A few plastic barrels full of materials to make bombs by my room. A concrete floor with mysterious stains I try not to think too much about. Beyond the threadbare couch we’re sitting on, no other furniture. 

“He’s been obsessed from the moment he laid eyes on you. I’m pretty sure he would die for you.”

That is true. But so would I. And I have. Twice. 

“And he’s so hot. Those Bambi eyes? You can’t tell me the thought never crossed your mind?”

This conversation has taken a turn I didn’t expect. I can’t figure out what she’s playing at. 

“What is he to you?” I ask. 

She looks thoughtful. “Serge, he’s...he’s my family.”

When we first moved in, he’d disappear every so often, then come back smelling of alcohol. A kind of sheepish, glazed look about him. I used to stay up worrying when he didn’t come home. I still worry, but I assume now he’s with her, or somebody. But I don’t ask because it’s none of my business who he has sex with. 

“Family...that sleeps together.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, Kitten.”

“It’s not like that,” I say.

“What’s it like then? Oh right. G.I. Joe, ‘twin flames.’” She rolls her eyes.

I can’t help but crack a smile at this. 

“I don’t know where he gets this stuff,” I say. 

“I know. It’s so cute. He’s a hopeless romantic.”

“Somehow.”

“Look. I love Serge. I’ll always love him. And he’s great in the sack.” She laughs. “He does this thing with his…” She smirks. “You’ll see… But he and I, we were never... If you’re worried about me, don’t. I just want him to be happy. And if it’s with a super-hot terrorist assassin supe, so be it.”

“Ex-terrorist.”

“Touché.”

I hear the sound of keys in the door. He eyes us warily, takes in the beers, our relative closeness on the couch. 

“Everything okay?”

She rises. “We’ve just been having a little girl talk.”

She runs her hand along his cheek and gives his chin a squeeze. “I’ve gotta run, Pumpkin, but I’ll see you next week. And Kimiko, don’t forget what we talked about. I expect a full report. No details left out.” She gives me another very unsubtle wink and is gone, trailing the scent of perfume and cigarettes behind her. 

Serge turns back to me. An eyebrow cocked. 

“You’re back early.”

“You were right. I got to the police station, and I just couldn’t do it. If he’s going to get into a bar fight, have the decency to leave before the cops arrive. Really, it’s just very inconsiderate.”

“He shouldn’t expect you to keep cleaning up his messes.” 

“Oui. But...what is she talking about? Full report on what?”

“How long have you been standing outside the door?” I ask.

“Not long at all.” His face is perfectly innocent. An angel-faced liar. 

“She wanted to know if we were sleeping together.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Merde. I’m sorry, ” he stammers, looking anywhere but at me. “I tried to explain to her that I never...I would never—“

He’s lying about something. He’s a very good liar, almost as good as me at keeping his secrets close to his chest, but we’ve spent a long time just looking at each other’s faces and I can read his tells. 

“I know. I heard you once, back at the old place.”

“She likes to instigate, that’s all.”

“I think if my boyfriend was living with another girl I might have some questions too.”

“Boyfriend?” He shakes his head. “No, no, no, she and I, we are not together.”

“You’re not?”

“We used to...a long time ago. But even then, we were free to...it was never exclusive. I love Cherie, forever. She is my friend, my family. C’est tout.” He looks at the ceiling, as if the answer is written up there. “That was another life. I don’t...I don’t want the same things anymore.”

He drops his gaze to me and then quickly looks away. “Maybe it’s growing up. I don’t know. My life before, that was...that was survival. I didn’t know where I’d be sleeping the night.” He considers what he’s just said and adds, “For many reasons.”

“And now… I’m not saying I want to move to the suburbs, but I think I’d like to stop running so much.” 

To stop running, you need to stop being chased first. But I can’t even imagine what the next few months might look like for him or for me. 

He gives me a rueful smile. “Maybe it’s just a misguided fantasy, especially in our line of work. But who knows? Things are different now. Anything is possible, no?”

—-

“I can take care of it.” 

“No, you can’t.”

As much as he likes to fuss over me, he can’t stand the thought of someone doing the same for him. And the funny thing is I’m far less fragile than he is. 

He got a nasty cut on his back, about six inches long and deep enough to need stitches. An unlucky encounter with a supe with ultra sharp claws. I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn’t gotten there in time. We’re no longer on the run and we probably could have gone to a hospital, but old habits die hard, I guess. He insisted that M.M. sew him up. But now the stitches need to come out. 

I find a small, sharp pair of scissors, tweezers, and rubbing alcohol. Then I indicate to him that he should sit. 

“It’s fine. I take them out later.”

“How?”

“Kimiko, this is not the first time I’ve had stitches.”

“I know. Sit.”

He rolls his eyes, but still he spins the chair around and sinks down into it with his back to me. Without another word, he pulls his shirt off. 

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

I’ve seen his bare back before, but never this closely. It’s a map of old wounds, some scars faint and barely visible unless I were to run my finger across his shoulder blades. Some are more recent. There’s an exit wound from when he tried to rescue me. The ones that make my stomach turn are very old, perfectly round scars, in a neat line disappearing into the waistband of his underwear.

The wound has started to scab over. It’ll leave a mark, but the skin looks healthy. No sign of infection. 

“Tell me if it hurts, okay?”

“Ah, but you would never hurt me, mon coeur.” He mumbles, a fat blunt between his lips.

I tug lightly on his earring.

“Don’t tempt me.”

He laughs. I used to think he was just feeding me lines. Serge is very charming when he wants to be, and I couldn’t understand how he could possibly believe any of it. He didn’t know me, even if, for some reason he thought he did. I was a stranger who couldn’t even tell him my own name, and yet he kept insisting that I was good. I’m not. I’m the farthest from it. But for some strange reason, he thinks I can do no wrong. I’m kind of dreading the day he wakes up from this fantasy. 

I snip the stitches and then carefully pull out one of the threads. 

“Is that okay?”

“Super.”

Fuck. Even if it hurt, he wouldn’t tell me. I am as gentle as possible, removing the rest of the threads. All the while, he rests his head on his arms, smoking lazily. 

“You’ve never had stitches, have you?” He muses.

“No.”

“I don’t think...you don’t even have scars. Your skin is perfect. Even after Black Noir cut you… I must look like Frankenstein’s monster.” 

I pull out the last thread and then wipe the area with an alcohol soaked cloth.

“I’ve seen worse. And I have scars. You just can’t see them.”

He sits up and turns to me, scanning my face. I don’t know why, but I make the sign for “inside.” He doesn’t ever pry. Serge is someone who understands the need to keep secrets. And yet I find myself telling him more than I expect to. I think after all these years of silence, I’m desperate to talk to someone. 

“Inside?”

I nod. 

“I can see them, mon coeur. You’re a survivor.”

I don’t know what to say to this. He looks at me, so softly, with such kindness in those sad brown eyes. I want to believe him. But there are ones he doesn’t know about. And if he did, maybe he wouldn’t be looking at me this way. Even Kenji didn’t know. 

I drop my eyes to the blunt in his hand, mostly because I find his gaze unnerving. 

“You want some?” he offers.

He holds it out to me. Instead of taking it, I bring my face to his hand and take a drag. It’s slightly damp from his mouth, his rough fingers barely brush against my lips. 

His eyes never leave my face. I exhale. 

“You’ve done this before.”

I nod. 

I’ve done so many things. Even though I have the words now, I don’t think I’ll ever tell him. 

—-

He called it poison for my soul. Maybe. But that’s assuming I even have one, or what’s left of one, anyway. The thing I can’t tell him because he’d never look at me the same way, is that when I do a hit, for one brief moment I’m at peace. My mind empties, replaced by a blinding white rage, and I lose all sense of time. All that pain comes flooding out of me and then it is over. 

At the bar where we agreed to meet, I point at the first thing on the menu. The bartender looks like he wants to chat, but I shoot him a look and he scurries off. She slinks in a little while later, in a cloud of perfume and cigarette smoke, all mile-long legs and smudgy eyeliner. The handful of guys in the bar at this time of day all turn their heads to look. It would unnerve me, but she’s got to be used to it. I wonder if I’ll ever get to the place where I want to be looked at by men. Instead of sitting across from me at the table, she slides into the bench next to me. 

I’m still not used to being this physically close to a person without them trying to hurt me in some way. Serge is okay now, but other people still leave me on edge. 

Cherie hands me a fat envelope under the table. I don’t bother counting the money. I know she’s good for it. 

“Buy me a drink?” she purrs. 

“Buy yourself one. Out of that ten percent you took.”

“Hey Kitten, thanks to me you’re nine G’s richer. Just think of it as an administrative fee.”

I thought we were done here, but she orders a drink. I guess we’re hanging out now.

“I might have something else for you. There’s this SLLA guy who owes the wrong people a ton of—”

“I’ll do it.”

“I thought you wanted me to vet them more. You don’t want to hear what he did? He’s a real piece of shit, this one.”

“Nope.”

“Oh wait… Were they the people that…?”

I nod. 

“Damn. Okay, yeah. Fuck those assholes.” She raises her glass to mine and we clink. 

We drink in silence for a while. I don’t mind it, actually. 

“I’m glad Serge got you out.”

I don’t doubt that she’s glad I’m not locked up in a basement in Chinatown anymore. But I think I’m the reason why their relationship, whatever it is, or was, changed. My eyes flick to her face, but there’s no sarcasm. 

“I am too.”

There’s so many ways that could have gone. He saved my life three times that day. And countless times since. 

“I’m the one that gave him the halothane gas that knocked you out, actually.” She smiles. “So, you’re welcome.”

I laugh and shake my head. “He had it in his hands and he put it down, right in front of me. He didn’t even try to use it. It was, I think Butcher that did it.”

“Are you serious? You could have killed him.”

“I know.”

“Jesus. Serge.” She shakes her head. “I’m gonna kill him.” 

We both laugh. Eventually, she says, “What are you going to do now? 

“What do you mean?”

“With your newfound freedom.”

I wave the envelope at her. 

“Yeah, but what else?”

I have no idea how to answer this. “I haven’t decided yet.”

I honestly hadn’t thought about it. The last big decision I’d made was where I was going to live. But beyond that? What do people do? How do people decide what to do with their lives? 

“What are you doing?” I ask.

She seems surprised to have the same question lobbed right back at her. 

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that. I don’t like to get bored.”

“And then what?”

“I always figured this lifestyle would catch up with me eventually. So I hadn’t really planned that far ahead.”

“What if it doesn’t, catch up with you, I mean.”

“Oh honey, there’s no question about that. There’s only one way this story ends. But to be honest with you, I thought it would be more of a Bonnie and Clyde situation.”

“I’m sorry, Cherie. I didn’t mean to...come between you two.”

Her face is inscrutable. “You want another?” she asks.

Sure, why not. I nod. She signals to the bartender to bring us more drinks. 

“Cherie…”

“That’s not my real name, you know. It’s just what he calls me. It means, ‘darling.’” She pauses. “But what’s his nickname for you?”

“Mon coeur.”

“‘There you go.” She takes a sip. “You know, that’s what his mom used to call him. I can’t compete with that. I don’t even want to.” She shrugs. “Although I’m pretty sure the way he feels about you...it’s not parental.”

I don’t know what to say about this. It would be absurd to deny it. Maybe that’s how it started, but that’s not where we are now.

“You seem...okay with this?” 

“I’m adapting.”

“Cherie, why are you so nice to me? Why are you getting me these jobs?”

She laughs. “I’m not nice. No one has ever called me nice in my life.”

“You should hate me.”

“Who says I don’t?”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

“Honestly? I didn’t like you at first. We had a pretty good thing going, and all of a sudden he drops everything for this feral chick who can’t even talk. I could understand it if he was thinking with his dick, but it’s been months and you still haven’t fucked.”

“And somehow you still want me to sleep with him.”

“I think I’d rather you two just rip the band-aid off. It would make it easier to wrap my head around.”

She lights a cigarette. The bartender looks like he’s about to come over to ask her to put it out, but catching a look thinks better of it.

“You know about Jay?” she asks.

I nod. His best friend. 

“The three of us, we were inseparable. We did everything together — everything. It was more than friends, more than lovers, they were my whole life. Serge wasn’t the same after Jay died. I mean, we always got into some reckless shit, but after…” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I’m surprised he’s still alive.”

“But then you came along… and it’s… something’s changed. He’s dealing with his shit, instead of just trying to bury it with pills or whatever. It’s almost like I have the old Serge back. Except...I don’t.” She looks pointedly at me. “So. What am I supposed to do? My best friend isn’t trying to actively get himself killed anymore. The trade off is I lose him anyway.”

“You haven’t lost him. He loves you.”

“I know. I know he does. But we can’t go back to what we were before. So. I’m trying to adapt. I guess I’m trying to figure out what’s next too.”

We sit in silence for a while. The drink I’ve been sipping makes me feel warm, my edges blurred. 

“That poor boy has the worst case of blue balls I’ve ever seen in my life.”

I giggle. “He’s fine. I’m pretty sure he’s taking care of it.” 

She laughs. “I bet he has. Knowing him, probably multiple times a day.”

“I meant with other people.”

“I don’t know about that. He told me the other day he hasn’t gotten laid in months. And he certainly hasn’t been with me. That’s how I know he’s got it bad.”

“No, no, no. We’re just friends.”

“Bullshit. I’ve seen the way you look at him when you don’t think anyone’s watching. Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve held out for so long.”

I don’t know what to say that doesn’t sound like a lie. I open my mouth to dig my heels in deeper. But then I think better of it. She’s been nothing but honest with me. 

“I’m used to...not getting what I want.”

She studies my face for a long time. 

“Kimiko, girl...you’re not locked up anymore. Nothing is stopping you from doing...anything. You’re free.”

“It’s a difficult habit to break. I don’t know how else to...survive.”

“You’re just going to have to figure that out. Otherwise what was the point if you’re just going to keep yourself in a cage?”

——

On my way home, I stumble pass a store I’ve always walked by but never actually gone into. Today, probably because I’m a tiny bit drunk, I go inside. Two beautiful, bored-looking girls stand behind the counter. One of them waves at me before returning her gaze to her phone. 

It smells really good in here. Expensive. But I’ve got money now. More money than I know what to do with. I get paid every two weeks. Plus my side gigs. 

Serge, of course, doesn’t trust normal banks. So he helped set me up with an overseas account. And we’ve got cash stashed everywhere. If it all goes bad again, we’ll have a way out. But in the meantime, I’ve got $9,000 in my pocket to spend.

I haven’t bought that much. He brought me clothes when he first saved me from that awful basement and I had enough to get by. 

But then I started getting paid. I didn’t know what to do with that first paycheck. Well, actually, it wasn’t a check, it was an envelope of cash. That was one of the terms Serge insisted on when we made that deal with Colonel Mallory. And they kept coming. Before, I’d denied myself any desire because there was no point in wanting what I could never have. And now? Cherie’s right. I’m living my life like a ghost, afraid to leave an imprint on anything. But I’ve got money now. And I’m free. I don’t know that there is a limit at all and that fact makes me dizzy. I’m surrounded by all these things that a normal girl could wear. 

Before I know it, I’m shuffled into a dressing room. The girl behind the register brings me things to try on. Florals and lace, jewel-toned dresses, whisper-thin cashmere sweaters, and delicate silk shirts that feel amazing against my skin. I wonder what kind of girl she thinks I am that she would bring me such things. I try them all on and don’t recognize the girl in the mirror. I look soft. Normal. I can’t see myself in any of this. But my clothes now aren’t quite right either. Honestly, I never had a choice before. I wore what I had, what was clean, or what Serge had brought me. And now I have a choice.

In the end, I buy a dress. It’s like nothing I’ve ever owned. I can’t imagine myself wearing it, but it’s so pretty I can’t resist. I also get underwear and bras, these little lace things. They look like they might rip if I look at them the wrong way. Not the most practical in my line of work but I don’t care. And a tube of red lipstick. When I go to pay, those girls exchange a look at the stack of bills in the envelope but say nothing. 

When I come home, he’s sprawled out on the couch, watching TV. I have this irrational thought that I should hide my bags. It’s leftover from before, a knee jerk reaction from when having something, anything, just meant it was another thing they could use to hurt me. The other question that popped into my mind was what if he asked to see what I bought? The drunk, reckless version of myself wants to see what would happen if I showed him the lace things. 

“Hey.”

“Welcome back.”

He notices my bags, but of course he doesn’t ask to see what’s inside. He knows that if I wanted to show him, I would. 

I drop the bags off in my room. When I come out, he’s moved over to make space for me on the couch. I plop down next to him. 

A smile slowly takes over his face.. “Kimiko. Are you drunk?”

I shake my head.

“I can smell it on you,” he laughs. 

“I’m maybe a little buzzed. I had drinks with Cherie. She’s nice.”

“Really?”

Maybe nice is not the word. She’s kind, in her way. She loves him and wants the best for him. Cherie is, above all, a pragmatist. 

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you two were friends.” 

“I don’t know if we are.”

He looks thoughtful. “I hope you two can become friends. She’s not close to many people. I worry about her sometimes.”

“She worries about you.” 

“Me? Why?” I’m fine.”

I think about the pills. Everything else he’s still taking. The night terrors. There’s a lot he’s not dealing with. But I’m in no position to say anything. With Kenji gone, I think Serge might be the only person tethering me to this life. When it gets too much and I toy with the idea of doing something drastic, I think about what it would do to him and that’s enough to keep me going a little while longer.

“It’s nice to worry about other people. It’s nice to have someone worry over you,” I say.

His face softens. “I worry about you too.”

“That’s not what I… You don’t need to.”

“Kimiko, I know you can take care of yourself. My petit Lazarus. But worry is...it’s just...it’s just another way of caring about a person.” He looks down and then back up at me. “I care about you. You are very important to me.”

My heart is beating very quickly. This conversation was not what I was expecting. 

“I know this is making you uncomfortable, so I won’t push any further than...than you want me to. I just realized that I never said it out loud. I just wanted you to know how important our...relationship is to me. That’s all.”

I’m a little speechless. He pats my hand lightly and then turns back to the television. I sink back down on the couch, but my heart is hammering in my chest and I can’t focus on the screen. I do something I haven’t done before. I shift over, and rest my head on his shoulder. I panic when he doesn’t respond right away, thinking I’ve misread the entire situation. But finally, he lets out a breath and wraps his arm around me.


End file.
